The club pulsed with low, sultry beats, the air thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. You’d only stepped away for a second, just to grab a drink, just to breathe—but a second was all it took.

A hand. A comment. A laugh that crawled under your skin and made your stomach turn. Your fingers tightened around your glass, jaw locking as your eyes landed on the man who had reached for you, his fingers grazing your waist. The air shifted.

And then everything stopped.

Because Thatcher had seen.

You felt it before you even turned. That oppressive, suffocating energy that wrapped around the room like a noose. A predator’s gaze locking onto prey.

The man’s fingers barely had time to leave your skin before Thatcher was there.

A hand fisted into the guy’s shirt. A single, brutal yank, and suddenly the drunk bastard was against the wall, eyes wide, mouth opening to protest—

But Thatcher didn’t give him the chance.

The first punch shattered his nose. The wet crunch of bone snapping beneath flesh made your stomach lurch, blood spurting in sick arcs onto Thatcher’s pristine Dolce & Gabbana suit.

But Thatcher?

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t stop.

Another blow—teeth clattering to the floor. A guttural, wet sob gurgled from the man’s mouth, but Thatcher wasn’t done.

His fingers curled around the guy’s throat, lips barely parted, his voice smooth, calm.

A sick gurgle of pain. A weak grasping at Thatcher’s iron grip.

Thatcher leaned in, close enough for the man to see exactly who he’d fucked with. “You breathe near her again, and I won’t just break you.” His lips quirked at the corner, slow and chilling. “I’ll carve you into something unrecognizable.”

The man was sobbed, blood and spit dripping from his lips. But Thatcher wasn’t satisfied yet.

Because Thatcher never just hurt people.

He ruined them.

You should have been afraid.

You should have run.

You weren’t afraid.

You felt safe, because you knew the length he’d go to protect you even if it meant getting blood on his hands.